


16 Miles to the Promised Land

by verulam (krynon)



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Edinburgh, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Runners AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/verulam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally, Rhys plays tennis.</p><p> That's not so easy with one arm (he still struggles with the prosthetic), so running is the next best thing. He ends up racing Vaughn up Arthur's seat in Edinburgh. </p><p>Rhys ends up running a whole lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	16 Miles to the Promised Land

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, but hopefully still cute!

 

Running is-

 

He likes running. He likes the fact that moving to Edinburgh gave him the chance to run more. He especially likes the idea of running up Arthur’s Seat, the big old extinct volcano that seemed to tower over the city in some spots.

 

Back in the old city, he’d run as well. Down long streets and square houses and huge lawns, the whole shebang. But there it had been practice for tennis, and since he’d lost his arm, that- that hadn’t been going so well, really. In fact he’d go so far as to say that it wasn’t going. Rhys playing tennis just. Wasn’t happening. At all.

 

So Edinburgh it was, staying with Yvette and hoping that the Starbucks was hiring. As it turns out, Rhys got lucky.

 

By the end of the second month, he’s working three part time jobs, and somehow still has time to run. He does two days at the little sewing store (the Scottish call it a “haberdashery”, which he _loves_ ), another two at the Starbucks, and two at a little local cafe next to all of the big business-looking buildings. They look kinda victorian from the outside, though honestly Rhys doesn’t know exactly what that actually means. They’re cute and old, is what he’s saying.

 

Scotland is a lot colder than Home. During the first few months, catching what he hears locals calling the “arse end of winter,” he shivers a lot. Without his parents (or his arm) he seems to be severely lacking in sweaters, for whatever reason, though that reason was probably the luggage allowance on the plane that had brought him here in the first place.

 

The sweater he _does_ have is warm at least, even if it was pale pink and slightly floppy around the arms. He keeps expecting it to catch in his prosthetic, like the skimpy tops he’d worn back in the States. They don’t though, so although there’s an _annoying_ draft around his wrist, at least he’s not constantly getting caught in it.

 

When the spring _finally_ starts to roll around, it only takes him a few weeks to find the perfect route. He starts in the centre of town, then runs past Holyrood Castle (which he still can’t pronounce correctly) into the park, and then _up._

 

He has mixed feelings about the ‘up’. Very mixed feelings.

 

On the one hand, it’s a great workout, and if he did it at the right time, very peaceful. It’s got beautiful views,and when the sun’s out it’s the most gorgeous and peaceful place Rhys has ever been.

 

On the other hand, it’s up. It’s up and since he turns around and runs back down again, it means that he’s only halfway by the time he’s run _up_ the damn thing, let alone _down_ again and back through town to Yvette’s apartment.

 

And that’s what running is, Rhys supposes, closing the door behind him and stepping out into the slightly foggy air. It’s difficult. Great fun, but super difficult. Within a few seconds of readying himself, double checking his water bottle and nudging at the laces of his shoes, he pushes off and starts running.

 

Thinking seems easier when he runs. The world is softer, trapped between pounding footsteps and the annoying way he needs to compensate for the different weights of his arms. He people-watches as he goes, picking out individuals breath by breath.

 

A woman with a bulldog, a young couple with matching haircuts, a toddler and a tired looking parents stomping down the little sideroads.

 

It’s the other runners that interest him most though. He usually jogs through town, beat by beat and then _sprints_ up the mountain. A runner with long brown hair braided up around their head sprints the _whole wayevery morning,_ which Rhys can barely stomach the thought of, and passes him on the street without a second thought.

 

Between a step, he figures that they’re probably going to run through the hills and up to the lake. He… kind of respects that, even though running that fast for more than 5 miles solid every day probably wasn’t the best for your body. He rounds a corner, breath coming in short staccato beats, feet pounding and steady beneath him.

 

It was nice, sometimes, to be powerful and fast.

 

Before very long, he’s reaching the bottom of the mountain, the greenery and the (perpetually angry) seagulls whizzing past, and beating at the ground, he starts the climb.

 

Suddenly he’s … racing, there’s someone with brown hair jogging ahead of him, and now behind him, and Rhys sprints _harder,_ leg in front of leg and feet _pushing,_ up and forward and god _damn_ this mountain seems higher every time he climbs it, one foot before the other and confident, confident that even if he’s huffing and puffing that he’s overtaken the little jogger next to him-

 

The little jogger catches up with him. They meet eyes. The little jogger grins. And then he sprints ahead.

 

‘What the fuck,’ Rhys thinks between breaths. ‘What the fuck.”

 

One foot before the other, he’s- he’s going as fast as he can. And the little joggers lead gets _bigger._

 

***

 

By the time _Rhys_ reaches the top of the mountain, the little jogger has completely caught his breath and is standing with a small smile on his face. When Rhys leans forward to brace himself on his knees, bent in half, the other man makes a small laughing noise in the back of his throat.

 

“Your time?” Rhys asks, huffing for breath. God. He’s gotta stop _racing_ people. Wanting to complete a marathon at some point was _one_ thing, it was another thing entirely to have a race with every single individual he ever passed who seemed slightly slower. Especially when they were _faster than him_.

 

“From the city centre?” Asks the man.

 

Rhys nods, which he hopes is obvious, because his head is currently level with his knees as he heaves for breath.

 

“‘Bout half an hour.” He checks his watch. “Huh. 29 minutes, 57 seconds. You?”

 

“Hfff,” Rhys says, eloquently. “Not, sure. Longer than that.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” says the man, stretching out his limbs. “Well, that was a good race. See you ‘round, stranger-”

 

“Wait-” Huffs Rhys. “Hhh-yuh, You’re American?”

 

The other man smiles shyly. It seems odd that he’s shy, especially given that he’d beaten Rhys hands down only a minute ago.“Yup. Name’s Vaughn. You too, I figure?”

 

“Hhhhyeah,” he says through another breath. It seems to be slowing now, thank God. “Name’s Rhys.”

 

He stands up, and before he can blink, he hears, “Good to meet you Rhys,” and then Vaughn is speeding down the mountain again.

 

...So then.

 

29 minutes, 57 seconds. He could beat that.

 

Yeah.

 

Rhys stretches, arms wide out to the side.

 

“I can beat that.”

 

***

 

He runs every day. He runs every single day, before work and after work, and on some occasions both. He runs after his Starbucks shift, he runs before his store shift, and he sometimes even runs _during lunch._

 

And it’s not _Rhys’_ fault that he’s got a thing for guys like that, a thing for guys that were competent, and it’s not Rhys’ fault at _all_ that the guy was so cute. But in the end, it doesn’t matter that the guy was cute or that Rhys had liked his brown eyes.

 

He can’t beat that. He’s been doing the fucking run for three weeks, and he cannot beat that. He can get it down to 30 minutes 44 seconds. He is almost a full minute behind Vaughn, even after 3 weeks of working at it.

 

That’s it. That’s his best.

 

He cannot beat the little jogger wearing skintight shorts. He cannot beat the goddamn little jogger in skintight shorts.

 

And he also can’t seem to bump into Vaughn and his skintight shorts again, which was somehow _more_ disappointing.

 

***

 

He meets up with Yvette the afternoon of a Wednesday, when the tiny cafe she’s picked this time offers half price cake with a large coffee. They split the cost of one slice, like they do every wednesday.

 

“So,” Yvette says, in that tone of voice she had when she was about to have Rhys wrapped around her little finger. “Have you met up with the mystery man yet?”

 

Rhys scowls at her over his coffee. “Which one?”

 

Yvette covers her mouth as she laughs. “The running one, you know. The little one in the shorts.”

 

“Why would I want to meet up with him?”

 

Yvette cradles her chin in her hands and makes fake kissing noises at him. “It’s because you _like-like_ him.”

 

“I do _not!_ ” Rhys retorts, outraged. Maybe only a little outraged, but _still_. How _dare_ Yvette suggest he liked his… rival, for want of a better word.

 

Yvette giggles and shushes him when the couple nearest looks over at them. “Yes you do, and you know it.”

 

“I’ve only met the guy _once!_ ”

 

She waves her hand dismissively. If Rhys tried to wave his hand as dismissively as she did, he’d definitely knock something over. Something about Yvette makes her infallible to that sort of thing. “We’re all expatriates, right? We’ll find each other sooner or later.” Yvette puts her coffee down and squints at him. “Speaking of, I meant to ask you. Your visa thing was for sport right? Why aren’t you playing tennis?”

 

Rhys wiggles his prosthetic.

 

“Ah. No-go, then?”

 

“Yep. For now.”

 

“Anyway. Enough of that. Tell me more about the mystery man.”

 

***

 

It’s all Yvette’s fault, really. Because if she hadn’t mentioned it, Rhys is certain he just would have… forgotten it. Or something.

 

(Rhys’ brain supplies that the ‘or something’ in question would be just fantasizing about the guy’s soft brown eyes and cute hair. Rhys tells his brain to fuck off.)

 

The whole thing is completely irrelevant anyway, because Rhys is just going to pretend it never happened unless he can beat Vaughn’s time.

 

***

 

(He can’t beat Vaughn’s time. He doesn’t even know if that had been a _fast_ time for Vaughn.

 

***

 

From then on, once or twice, he meets Vaughn sat at the edge of the cliff, perched and drinking from his water bottle.

 

“Hey,” he says, panting.

 

“Hello,” Says Vaughn. “Good to see you again, Rhys.”

 

“Mind if I sit with you?”

 

Vaughn smiles with the twinkliest eyes Rhys has ever seen. Goddamn it.

 

“Sure.”

 

And so Rhys _does_ sit with him.

 

And it turns out that Vaughn works down the street from the Starbucks, and that he’ll probably come in one day at lunch now, and that Vaughn did something in accounting and could get him an internship if he wanted one, and that Vaughn wanted a little dog and that he loved Edinburgh and had moved here from Texas.

 

He also has very cute eyes and a ponytail that Rhys hadn’t noticed before, and a scruffy beard, and Rhys had _heard_ the word lumbersexual before but had never really _got_ it before.

 

It’s all Yvette’s fault, really.

 

 _And_ the exchange does nothing to make him less competitive.

 

***

 

He gets it down to 30 minutes exactly.

 

For fucks _sake._

 

***

 

He’s sprinting up the hill, and-

 

There he _is, the bastard, fuckin’-_ Vaughn is _ahead of him,_ and-

 

“Okay,” he mumbles under his breath. Okay, he can work with this. He can work with it, he’ll just jog alongside, and then when they’re near the top he’ll pull ahead and it’s all going to be fine-

 

He can feel the moment when his legs decide that they’re going to win by a landslide and just sprint the fuck forward, launching himself forward with all of his might and pulling ahead, _yesss-_

 

Step on step, foot on foot, nearly _there-_ He pulls forward, very quickly, speeding and launching himself with every step and he must look ridiculous and probably his time will still be slower than Vaughn’s anyway but it’s the _principle of the-_

 

Rhys falls over. Right at the top. Right where he could have beaten his time.

 

Suddenly, there’s a hand in his face and a man with a smile. It’s _the_ man with a smile, the one with the glasses held on with string and the face with the warm eyes. It’s Vaughn. Who has just beaten him up the hill.“Need a hand?”

 

“Yeah,” says Rhys, and grabs at the offered fingers, hauling himself up. “And a stiff drink.”

 

Vaughn laughs. “We’ll see about that.”

 

***

 

In the end, it’s not a stiff drink, it’s a coffee. Which is fine by Rhys, frankly, because he’s _exhausted._  

 

“So,” says Vaughn, settling into his seat. “You mentioned you like Tennis, right?”

 

“Uh,” Rhys scratches at the back of his head, sheepishly. “It’s actually meant to be the reason I’m in Scotland at all. I’m- I was gonna be a Tennis Coach, you know? ‘Cause I’ve got national experience-”

 

“ _National?!”_ Vaughn leans over his coffee, apparently intrigued, “Damn! So you- you don’t do that now?”

 

Rhys sighs. “Not… not exactly? I should be doing it though. I don’t suppose you know anyone that needs coaching?”

 

Vaughn smiles at him after a small moment, and his eyes go all twinkly. “Well. I mean. Me?”

 

“You?” Rhys takes a drink of his coffee to mask his smile.

 

“Yeah, sure! I’ll make you run faster if you help me get fitter,” Which seems odd, because Vaughn was very definitely fitter than _Rhys_ was.

 

“Aren’t you, like, completely jacked though?”

 

“I-” Vaughn pauses. “Well, not- not _completely,_ ” He stutters, and then it hits Rhys. It’s a little suggestion, a tiny one, and his brain seizes it like a dog with bone. That is, with its tail wagging and a huge smile.

 

“Are you-” Rhys says. “Bro, are you- Do you wanna spend some time with me?”

 

Vaughn blushes, just a little, and Rhys smiles widely before putting a hand over his mouth.

 

“Yeah, Vaughn, I’ll coach you. Sure.” Rhys smiles, and takes a drink. “Won’t come cheap though.”

 

The man with twinkly eyes laughs.It’s an infinitely sweet moment.

 

***

 

At the end of the first tennis practice, Vaughn removes his shirt to pull on a sweater.

 

Vaughn removes his shirt (probably) to show off.

 

Vaughn removes his shirt to show off how unbelievably _ripped_ he was, and suddenly Rhys finds himself whistling.

 

“Damn, Vaughn!”

 

Vaughn grins. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

And then Vaughn walks towards him, brackets him around the edge of the tennis court, and says: “Yeah?”

 

And Rhys smiles, because to kiss Vaughn sweetly and softly, he has to lean forward and push him back to reach his lips.

 

“Yeah.”

 

It’s sweet and soft and calm, just- tenderness and a little bit of sweat.

 

***

 

Rhys never does beat Vaughn’s time.

 

Having said that, at the very top of Arthur’s seat, where they first met, they get to kiss.

 

He gets to kiss Vaughn a _lot._

 

_***_

 

Running is-

 

Running is one of the best things to ever happen to him.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr,[](https://verulamfic.tumblr.com>%20here!<a/>)


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